


Tea, Toast, And Big Brother

by Random_Nexus



Category: Sherlock BBC
Genre: Brothers, Gen, Gift Fic, Hurt/Comfort, Kid Fic, Prompt Fic, Sick Character, Whiny Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-06
Updated: 2018-03-06
Packaged: 2019-03-28 00:04:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,347
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13891968
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Random_Nexus/pseuds/Random_Nexus
Summary: Sherlock is sick, Mummy and Daddy are away, leaving Mycroft to take care of his baby brother.Written for the prompt: On tumblr,Anglofilehas got the stomach flu, on top of other health issues, and wished for fic in order to maybe feel a bit better.





	Tea, Toast, And Big Brother

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Anglofile](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anglofile/gifts).



> I had an idea (as cliché as it might be) when I first saw Anglofile's post. It took longer than I’d hoped to execute, but it’s still well-meant. M'friend, I hope you’re feeling better ASAP!

“You don’t have to pretend, Mycroft, I know I’m dying,” Sherlock said in a reedy voice as his brother entered the room. He hated how he sounded, but he was unable to speak at any volume due to his stomach muscles being painfully exhausted. Well, that and his throat felt like it had been scoured with a sandblaster and then drenched in acid.

“You’re not dying,” Mycroft dismissed in a long-suffering tone as he set the tray he was carrying on the nearby dresser. “You have stomach flu.”

The smell of tea and toast almost made Sherlock want to cry. He was so hungry, but almost everything they’d tried to put in his stomach for the last two days came right back out again. Water seemed to work, if only in a trickle. He’d been lucky that morning with some weak, milky tea with almost no sugar—in tiny, tiny sips, too. Only the next time they tried had been unlucky, indeed.

It was a mighty effort not to whine when Sherlock asked, “Why isn’t Mummy home yet?”

“Aeroplanes are fast, but they still take time, as you very well know.” Mycroft placed the slightly uneven straight-backed chair from Sherlock’s desk next to the bed, equidistant between the 7 year-old patient and the dresser holding the tray. “Let’s see if you can manage a few bites of toast.”

“I can’t,” Sherlock moaned, unable to keep his bottom lip from sticking out a bit. “I’m going to either starve to death or… or vomit up an organ and die of… internal haemorrhage.” It was frustrating that his voice shrank down to a tight squeak when he was trying not to cry. Also his sore throat made the process worse than usual.

“Stop being so melodramatic,” chastised Mycroft as he brought the cup of tea and the small plate of toast—only one piece; dry, of course—with him, sitting down carefully in the rickety chair. “You’ve already made Mummy and Daddy cut their trip short, as well as making Uncle Rudy send Mrs. Robinson over to look after us. I think that’s quite enough without all this whinging.”

“I don’t like Mrs. Robinson,” sulked Sherlock, though he obediently let Mycroft put the cup to his lip and tilt it exactly enough to allow him to take a very small sip before pulling it away. Then he proffered the toast.

“She isn’t here for you to like.” Mycroft waited until Sherlock had hesitantly nibbled a tiny corner of the toast and put it back on the plate before returning both to the tray. They both knew he was waiting to see if the stuff would stay in Sherlock’s tummy or lurch out again to send him into another span of horrid burning and heaving. Granted, it hadn’t happened so far that afternoon, but it seemed to have become Sherlock’s new way of life—sweating, freezing, heaving, or rushing to the loo for even more disgusting bodily antics.

“Why doesn’t _she_ bring me things, then? She’s the adult, after all.” Sherlock’s gut made small squelching, squeaking sounds, but no heaving just yet.

Raising one gingery eye-brow at him, Mycroft’s voice sounded ominous as he asked, “Do you _want_ her to?”

Grimacing, Sherlock worried the covers over his questionable tummy—no, _stomach_ , because tummy was a word for babies—and muttered, “No.”

“Which is why I’m here instead.” Mycroft checked his watch, obviously seeing how long Sherlock’s infinitesimal portions were going to last.

Sighing cautiously, still wary of using his diaphragm too much, Sherlock struggled to keep from pouting again. After almost a minute, he whispered at his pale, nervous fingers, “Thanks.”

“Mrs. Robinson is here to deal with anything that actually requires an adult,” Mycroft pointed out, as if Sherlock didn’t already know. He just wanted Mummy, that’s all. She always knew how to make him feel better. Then Daddy would sit with him and cuddle him close, once it was safe to, and read to Sherlock till he fell asleep. Daddy would even do voices and sound-effects sometimes, especially if Sherlock remembered to say ‘please’.

Ten minutes later, Sherlock had managed three more sips of tea and three more bites of toast. Nothing launched itself back out again, but the gurgling and rumbling kept on in ominous fashion. Mycroft carefully didn’t look at the bucket tucked just under the head of the bed, a plastic bin liner neatly arranged inside, since it had got ‘immensely tedious’ for Mycroft to have to keep washing out the bucket almost hourly for a while. Switching out bin liners was far easier.

“I think we’d best leave it at that for now.” Mycroft set everything aside once more and stood next to Sherlock’s bed, touching his forehead with one plump hand, his skin felt cold on Sherlock’s feverish face. “Are you sleepy?”

Sherlock nodded, again wanting Mummy and/or Daddy so much it made his eyes sting enough to squeeze them tightly closed. He understood why they couldn’t come home immediately, really he did, but he didn’t _like_ that it was so.

It was so very unfair that he’d got sick barely a day after Mummy and Daddy had gone on a trip to the continent. Sighing again, sniffling as quietly as he could manage, Sherlock stared dully out the window, watching the nearly horizontal shafts of late afternoon sunlight flickering randomly through the windblown tree branches. Even the intermittent, filtered light hurt Sherlock’s dry, aching eyes, making him close them again.

“Budge over, little brother,” Mycroft said after a long silence and some movements across the room which Sherlock hadn’t bothered to track. Opening his eyes, Sherlock saw Mycroft was holding one of his favourite books: _Treasure Island_. Blinking, Sherlock hesitated, but Mycroft just gestured at him with the book. “Go on, then. I might as well be comfortable if I’m going to indulge the invalid.”

Snorting at the word ‘invalid’, Sherlock wriggled over till he was almost touching the wall, leaving just enough room for Mycroft’s portly form. Sherlock wanted to say, ‘but you don’t like that book’ or ‘you’re really going to read to me like Daddy does?’, but he was afraid it would actually make Mycroft stop and leave, so he managed to hold his tongue. Since he’d been away at school, Mycroft had stopped doing things like that, and had even sneered at Sherlock’s ‘childish ways’ when it had come up.

But here was Mycroft, plumping one of the pillows he’d brought over from the window seat along with Sherlock’s book and arranging it behind him, leaning up against the headboard; here was Mycroft settling the book on his rounded belly and flipping pages till he found the beginning. Here was the big brother Sherlock had missed so much, letting Sherlock lean against him once Mycroft had got himself comfortable, licking his lips and beginning to read aloud in a quiet, soothing voice.

“Chapter one. The Old Sea-dog at the Admiral Benbow. Squire Trelawney, Dr. Livesey, and the rest of these gentlemen having asked me to write down the whole particulars about Treasure Island, from the beginning to the end, keeping nothing back but the bearings of the island, and that only because there is still treasure not yet lifted…”

Mycroft’s solid shoulder felt almost cool against Sherlock’s hot cheek, the smooth fabric of his button-down adding to the effect, and the murmuring rumble of his voice was somehow even more soothing when it was being conducted through his body to Sherlock’s ear. Sherlock tried, a bit, but he never heard Mycroft begin chapter two.

When Sherlock woke up sometime later—after dreams of pirates and sea-battles and treasure—it was to Mummy’s hand pushing back his sweaty curls to kiss his forehead with lovely, cool lips. Behind her, Daddy was just then releasing Mycroft from what had obviously been a hug. A moment before Daddy knelt by Sherlock’s bed, which would block his view of his big brother, Sherlock smiled gratefully at Mycroft, who smiled back and winked before leaving him to Mummy and Daddy’s loving concern.


End file.
